In the world of Hollywood and gossip journalism, where does the line of reality end and spin begin? It was in September of 2000 that I first heard of and saw the trailer for metal rocker Rob Zombie’s feature directorial debut. Not long after, Universal dumped the film and gave the rights back to Mr. Zombie, presumably because of the violence level. I’m sure Columbine was used an excuse. In June 2002, MGM picked up the project and then dumped it six weeks later. I’m not sure if 9/11 was ever mentioned. Finally, everyone’s favorite savior studio, Lions Gate snatched it up and they’ve still got it. They could have used any excuse they wanted, but it would have been nice for someone at any of the studios to just look Zombie in the eye and say “we’re not releasing your film because you’ve made an unquestionably horrible piece of crap.”

Surely the rocker, an incredible admirer of horror films, realized his final product wasn’t above the standards of the kind of straight-to-video shlock that even Elvira or Sybil Danning would be ashamed to present. Unless Tiny Tim’s turn as the deranged clown, Marvelous Mervo, in Blood Harvest was his inspiration, homage is a far-reaching fantasy. Indeed the true stimulus for what serves as the Corpses plot is Tobe Hooper’s sole triumph, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, a distinction Zombie will have to try again to accumulate although we must pray he never gets the opportunity.

In what seems like the titular displeasuredome, we open with a trip to Captain Spaulding’s, a recreated freakshow of sorts that also sells gas and fried chicken. Spaulding (blaxploitation favorite Sid Haig) looks like John Wayne Gacy after a bad hair day and has no problem dispatching a pair of robbers with everyone’s favorite weasel, Michael J. Pollard, in the opening scene. We can only imagine what he’s going to do to the four unsuspecting teens who get lost on a dark and stormy night.

After putting them through a decidedly anti-Disney tour ride of famous serial killers (just what the researching foursome were looking for) they’re on their way to the real house. A sexy hitchhiker (Sheri Moon) offers assistance for their flat tire and brings them back for a night of dinner, variety show and skin peeling. That’s about it. There’s no suspense. No rooting interest in sympathetic heroes or jeer-shouting villainy. Even a freakshow has personality. Here, the good guys walk right into the mess and stay there. Ever see a rodent survive the mousetrap and walk around with its tail caught underneath the bar? I don’t know if that describes Zombie’s victims or the audience, but I do know that I would rather watch with eager anticipation the culmination of the board game MouseTrap.

From a filmmaking standpoint, it’s a cheap, ugly looking picture. Mr. Zombie could argue that it’s the cheap exploitation look of those gory classics he grew up with. But nobody watches I Spit On Your Grave for its look. Using skinmasks and various metal cutting objects don’t really qualify as homage. Neither does setting the film one year before Michael Myers went on his rampage or instilling the people with the names of old Marx Bros. characters. The joke isn’t on us. It isn’t even anywhere near the movie. Tributes come with joy and affection for its subject material; a wink that even through the ugliness there’s some fun to be had. With this film, Zombie is wearing eyepatches and expecting the audience to have blinders on.

I will admit that horror films of this sort are not my cup of blood. Friday the 13th never worked for me even as a kid, but that doesn’t qualify me as a snob who doesn’t think Halloween and Texas Chainsaw Massacre are American masterworks of horror. Even from a gorehound’s standpoint, this film doesn’t even come close to delivering on its threat of an old school NC-17 bloodfeast. Nothing about this film is appealing. From the grating performances of Bill “I was in the Leatherface sequel” Moseley and Karen “I swear I once did Nicholson movies” Black to its grimy, sleep-inducing narrative, there is not one thing to like about House of 1000 Corpses. I couldn’t even enjoy the former host of MTV’s Singled Out (Chris Hardwick) being turned into a merman of sorts. And I’m always up to see a good kebobing of a pseudo-celebrity that I hate.